


Variation on the Word Exception

by shapechanger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pre-Relationship, Werewolf Issues, falling asleep together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7641238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shapechanger/pseuds/shapechanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the immediate aftermath of a full moon, Remus considers the repercussions of making exceptions and letting someone close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Variation on the Word Exception

The dark behind Remus' eyes lightens, and he wants to turn away from whatever light source is falling across his face, knows what will greet him the instant that he does. Regardless of whether he takes the Wolfsbane potion or not, there is always one consistent result to his changes. As it does every single time, before he has the chance to fully register the physical toll, the thought flashes in. _I...ache like unholy fuck._ Of course, as always, the instant that he thinks the words, every muscle seems determined to feel it. There's a faint groan as he uncurls his limbs and slowly prises his eyes open, squeezes them briefly shut again almost straight away. They're sensitive and even with the windows closed and shutters drawn down, the room left dim, it's still too much at first. The rest of his senses rush in one by one, and he can feel where the rug has left prints against his face. He's roused again from the fugue state of the wolf, and he feels it recede from him, inch by inch.

The idea of having slept through changing back was unlikely at best; no, the odds were that he'd passed out, a regular occurrence in the aftermath that he was well-used to by now. Moving any further seemed unwise at that moment, so he remained still, taking the time to ascertain what damage he might have done to his body. There are scratches, as usual, though thanks to the potion far fewer in number and far less painful than they might have been, all minor and only on his forearms. He's always careful to take the bare minimum of the potion needed to keep himself under control, but no more than that; the time may come where he has to do without it again, and he needs to be prepared for that possibility. His system becoming accustomed to the full dose and then having it taken away could be disastrous. The ingredients for the potion are expensive and Remus is quite aware that without support from the Order and Severus Snape, he'd be in no position to consistently purchase anything of professional quality. The odds are that he'd be reduced to bargaining for the stuff sold in Knockturn Alley, trusting his transformation, perhaps his life to an unknown potioneer because the alternative risks are unthinkable. His thoughts are racing and so is his pulse, still faster to cope with the stress placed upon his body. Slowly, Remus manages to sit up, though his head spins as he does so. When his muscles seize in protest, he freezes in place and closes his eyes again, willing himself not to be sick, not yet. His temperature is dipping between hot and cold and it doesn't help the dizziness; his body is reacting to the aconite in the potion, the ingredient for which it is named. The symptoms aren't lethal at this level, not the poison which it can become if applied in an incorrect dosage. He knows that he needs to get up and the world lurches sideways once he does.

Everything _aches_ impossibly still when Remus flings out a hand and catches himself against the wall. Not for the first time, he has another thought. _I don't know if I can manage this on my own._ The fact is, though, that he largely has since he left Hogwarts as a teenager, has become used to his largely solitary existence. Incongruously, feverishly, his thoughts turn to Tonks. _Would she come, if I asked?_ The thought is dismissed almost as soon as it occurs. _Why would she come? For the joyous bounty of an exhausted, soon to be vomiting werewolf? Merlin, there's a **meeting** tonight, I don't even know if I'll be in any condition to sit through it yet…_

The thoughts are as exhausting as moving feels. Though Remus knows that a hot bath with a muscle relaxant poured into the water is the surest and safest remedy for his muscles, he doesn't know if he can make it to the bath. _Come on. Step by step. It'll be worse later if you don't. Move, now, before you can't._ Giving himself directives, orders, seemed easier than pondering the idea of asking for help. He knew what needed to be done, he just had to get himself to where he could do it. Thankful that he'd stayed in his bedroom rather than hemming himself into one of the rooms downstairs, he manages to pull on a worn bathrobe before he undoes the multiple bolts on the door with hands that shake, unsteadily strips away the charms sealing the room, intended to keep him in there securely if anything should be amiss with the potion. That's one major advantage of the potion: it means that an ordinary location is secure enough, if locked down with the proper precautions. When he finally reaches the bathroom, there's tiny black dots dancing in front of his vision and he has to blink in order to clear it. Once the bath is started running, the relaxant tipped into it, Remus lets himself sink back to the floor, cheek against the cool tile in an effort to quell the continuing spikes and shifts of his temperature. _Just a few minutes…_

He comes back to painful awareness again a few minutes later, having drifted. The bath is almost full, and he lets the robe drop to the floor as he climbs in. Lifting his legs hurts, makes his eyes burn and throat draw tight, and so does the heat of the water at first when he lowers himself in. Remus doesn't allow himself to think about what this transformation would have been like without the potion, if he feels this bad as it is. He can't pinpoint what's different, wonders if there was a particular significance to the moon just gone that strikes out at the balance of magic and wolf warring in his blood and bursting out of his body, one that he's somehow missed. The thought is a muddled one as he lets himself lean back and allows the water and the relaxant to do their work. The heat makes him tired as his body, slowly becoming less sore by small fractions, realises it is almost wholly bereft of energy. Knowing as he does that he's going to be sick fairly shortly and that it will be horrible, as it always is, Remus scrubs water over his face and again, can't help but wish for _someone_ to be there. It's a weakness, that thought, and it's not one that he's often had. He knows that all he has to do is send a message to a member of the Order and he'll have help, healing, but that isn't what he really wants. Again, his thoughts drift to Tonks, blurring, enough to remind him that sick or not, he's going to have to eat something once he's done with what's next. _Would she come?_ He likes to think that she would, that she'd understand, make sense of his glazed eyes and half-inane murmurings. He likes to think that she'd stay, the way that she has on other occasions.

It's a thought that he can't afford.

When Remus moves from the bath, it's because the water is rapidly growing cold and he doesn't feel capable of sustaining a charm to keep it hot. He's getting dizzy again and he's promptly sick into the sink the minute that he's fully upright. The only thing that stops him from falling over is the fact that his hands are white-knuckled on the porcelain surface. When he at last raises his head and looks in the mirror, his eyes are bloodshot, blood vessels beneath them broken and leaving his face with a bruised quality that ages him another ten years. He quickly drops his gaze from the sight and brushes his teeth with a shaking hand, rinses his mouth at least three times before he's satisfied with it. He draws his robe on and pulls the plug on the bath. The black dots are back and he blinks harder, only this time they don't fade away. Moving back towards his bedroom, step by step, Remus has to give himself orders so that he can remain upright. _Come on. Few more steps. There's crackers and water by the bed._ He makes it, but only just, limbs giving way against the soft mattress and shifting beneath the blankets before everything goes black again altogether.

It's evening, late evening when Remus regains consciousness, and he becomes sharply aware that not only has he outright missed the Order meeting, the reasons for his absence will be quite obvious. It's a fact that he should be used to by now, but it still stings his pride and makes him grit his teeth. It isn't until he registers that he's reached out and gripped his wand instinctively, muscles be damned, that he realises _something_ woke him rather than a natural return to awareness. His vision is grey-scale, the wolf's eyes at the surface, and he has to concentrate before the world returns in colour, albeit covered in shadow. What isn't shadowed, however, is the small, glowing form of the Patronus that has curled at the end of his bed, seemingly waiting for him to notice that it was there. He blinks, confused, until the form of the jack rabbit pricks up its ears and a voice comes from it that he knows.

_If you need anything, you know how to get hold of me._

There's clear hesitation in Tonks' voice, as though she's afraid of overstepping, but as the Patronus dissipates, Remus also hears the note of concern in it. It sends warmth through him in the same moment that it increases his level of stress exponentially, knowing that she won't show up uninvited, tacitly thinking of his comfort and not her own. _She's worried. She's worried, and I caused that. How can I possibly ask this of her?_ The pang that accompanies the thought is far sharper than the twinge still lancing his body, all the lingering reminders that he turned into something else, something _other_. The strain of it only nudges at the remaining exhaustion, sends him lapsing back into sleep that isn't really rest at all.

When he wakes again, it's the middle of the night, hours later, turning fast on until morning. The small scratches on his arms burn faintly, an irritant that he sees to with a dab of antiseptic and a small amount of healing salve from the bedside table. His skin itches with the ghost memory of fur, and everything registers differently. Remus manages a few sips of water, a cracker of two, but that's about all. He feels wrung out and there's several expletives ready to his lips every time he shifts minutely and presses some new knot that's produced itself in objection to the change. He doesn't use any of them, it's pointless swearing at the walls, after all, but the effort of sitting up in bed costs him rather more than he'd prefer. "Ergh." His voice is rusty, and he drinks some more water, setting the glass down with more than usual care. He's still shaky and really, it's not welcome. The thought that he should have something to sort out his likely very low blood sugar occurs to him, but that requires more movement than Remus currently feels capable of. It's more than faintly aggravating, and this, this is the other reason that he doesn't currently have someone with him. _No one would willingly put up with a werewolf's mood swings this close after the moon_ , he reminds himself wearily. The argument of his own mind comes back at him. _Except…_

Because there is an exception, now, isn't there? Knowing that Tonks might well do that for him is a thought that he's not used to having. It turns out, however, that it's enough to produce a Patronus from and send a message with. She'll still be awake, her shift runs late nowadays and he's usually sat in the kitchen at Grimmauld with her at this time.

_I'm all right. A little sore, as usual. Afraid I'd be a poor host if you visited just now, but you're always welcome._

He hopes that she'll come, read between the lines.

She does, knows how to get in from her previous visits. Her hair's that raspberry pink again, and it strikes him that for some reason it's become his favourite that she wears. The softness in her face holds no pity and no condemnation, and it takes away the raw edge that came from wanting her there. She's carrying a flask and a brown paper bag; peppermint tea for his stomach and chocolate biscuits respectively, as it turns out. When Remus asks how she knew, Tonks replies with the logic that using your muscles involves exertion and energy is needed after, and that she thought anything with caffeine in might be a poor idea given the contents of the potion.

It's a relief to have her there, to listen to the gentle husk of her voice, talking softly when she sees how tired he is. Muzzily, he registers that she threw on her cloak over her pyjamas, must have left her boots downstairs. She's wearing odd socks that don't even come close to matching, one dark green, the other banded in grey and purple. The pyjamas are soft red flannel and should clash horribly with her hair, but all it does is cement the comfort that slid into place with her arrival. He's nearly asleep when Tonks quietly shifts to her feet, and it wakes him up, thinking that she's leaving. He isn't sure what sort of expression is on his face or how much she sees of it, but when she changes her trajectory and slips into bed beside him, his arms go around her automatically and he buries his face in her shoulder when she reciprocates. In all honesty, he's not entirely lucid at this point, but the warmth and closeness is so much better than being alone for the aftermath and he knows that she feels it when he mouths the words _thank you_ against her, soundless, because her hand gently sweeps his spine without pressing anywhere that would hurt. This is Tonks' trick, her real magic, that she can take even this, something that he carries with emotions varying between shame and rage and regret and make it into something far less savage, remind him that he's human. 

_I'm going to have to tell you, tell you how much this means…_ The thought lingers as he fades into sleep, held in her arms, not for the first time, and though he isn't yet certain, not for the last.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this piece was inspired by the poem _Variation on the Word Sleep_ by Margaret Atwood, a recent favourite of mine. I thoroughly recommend her collection entitled _Eating Fire: Selected Poetry 1965-1995_. The soundtrack I wrote with was various things by Coeur de Pirate on shuffle. I started without really knowing where this was going, but this was the eventual outcome. Hope that someone enjoys it!


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